For Samavia
by Mary West
Summary: Who was Marco's mother, and why did she barely appear in the story. Here is what happened when Stefan met her, then lost her.


_Paris, France. 1902_

The young man in the bowler hat and slightly dishevelled suit waited until the soldier opened the door for him. He tried very hard not to cling to his preconceptions, although the shabbiness of the room he entered did surprise him.

The man sitting at the table was still quite young, although a few stray grey hairs were showing at his temples. Several books lay scattered over the table, each open to a page showing a map of a city that Jones could not recognise, nor would he have been able to read most of the text. His languages were limited to English and French, and that second was barely enough to find his way to this lonely alleyway in the 11th _arrondissement_ , where he needed to deliver a letter. But he was determined not to make a mistake in this. He knew his actions would be reported back to his employer, and would define his future career.

"Yes?"

"Sir, I … are you Stefan Loristan?" The newcomer, Mark Jones, was very British and terribly nervous, but determined to cling to his instructions.

The seated man rose, and gestured to two chairs beside a meagre coal fire. "Lazarus? Would you fetch some tea for our visitor?"

The manservant bowed and left, closing the door behind him. Jones removed his hat, and placed it and his coat on a spare chair at the back of the room. Then he took the chair in front of the fire, the warmth very welcome on this grey October afternoon. He held his bag on his lap, protectively, although he did not feel threatened. On the contrary, he felt more secure and welcomed than he had in a long time.

The original occupant of the room came and sat on the chair opposite, in a careful manner that spoke of a recent injury. His face held a curious smile, one that invited the messenger to speak again, but Jones preferred to wait. He did not want to give anything away when it would not be appropriate. Instead, he looked around the room, seeking anything that would verify the occupant's identity.

Jones had dealt previously with ambassadors, princes and generals, but for some reason this man seemed different. Out of place, certainly, in a dingy study in an unfashionable area of Paris. His bearing showed that he requested rather than ordered, but that he expected those requests to be honoured. And not out of fear or servitude, but out of respect and possibly even love. Jones was not used to someone who would not need to threaten or bluster to get what he wanted. If this, indeed, was Stefan Loristan, then Jones had quite a future ahead of him.

A minute later, there was a knock at the door. Lazarus came in with a tray, which he placed on the desk, then went back out again. Soon a portable table was set up between the two chairs, and the tray on top held a samovar and two tea glasses of the sort commonly seen in Eastern Europe. Each had a gold crest on it, nearly obliterated with age and use. The messenger picked one up to better see it, and was rewarded by the other man's gentle nod.

"Yes, it is the crest of Samavia. I am Stefan Loristan, of whom you seek." He did not hold out his hand, which did not surprise Jones. Nobility did not expect to shake hands with the messenger. "You have some news for me?"

"Jones, of the Brierport office. Forgive me, sir, but I have to be certain. There is a sign … "

Loristan bowed his head. "When the time comes, and that time is not yet, there is a sign. The sign is: _The Lamp is Lighted_. And if you are asking that, Mr Jones, then you have some news for me."

"I do, sir, and thank you for that." Somehow, Jones now felt himself sitting bolt upright, internally thrilled by the other's deferment. But he also knew that the next part was the hardest. "I have a letter for you."

He opened his bag, and from an internal pocket withdrew an envelope of heavy cream paper. It was slim, as if very little lay within, but Jones knew its weight. He looked up at Loristan, whose face had suddenly frozen.

"Marja."

This was what Jones had dreaded. Behind him, he heard the harsh sound of Lazarus's indrawn breath, and what might have been a sob. "I am so sorry, sir."

"Do you know? Were you there?"

Jones nodded briefly. "She … shall I tell you, sir? The Earl has written of the circumstances, and there is her own letter. But perhaps I could tell you."

Loristan seemed about to nod, then he looked at Lazarus. Jones turned in his chair to see the large man collapsed against the door jamb, his face white and streaked with silent tears. Loristan rose and put a hand on Lazarus's arm.

"Where is Marco?"

Lazarus gulped, and stood up straight. "The young Master is asleep upstairs. Shall I fetch him?"

"No. Let him sleep." Loristan's voice held a slight quaver. "He will not remember her, and perhaps it is better that way. No, good and faithful one, take another chair and come and listen." At this, Lazarus looked as if he might protest, but Loristan's voice became insistent. "I need you to listen, tonight. I need you to remember her with me."

Lazarus took a chair and sat with the others, staring into the fireplace while the tears ran down his face. Loristan nodded, then turned back to Jones.

"Tell me. Tell me how she was."

Jones, put his briefcase on the floor beside him, then took up one of the cups of Russian tea. He wished for a moment that there might be something stronger, but this would have to do. "It was all surprisingly fast. She was always walking along the garden paths, tending the roses and smiling. Then one evening she complained of a pain in her side. It was nothing, she said, but the next morning she couldn't get out of bed. She wouldn't eat, could barely stand… the doctor said it was a stomach cancer, and that you should be sent for, but she would not allow us. Instead, she wrote the letter for you. And within a week, she was gone."

"A week." Loristan's face was still frozen, as if to relax it was to let loose the flood of tears Jones feared. "But tell me – apart from the very beginning, did she suffer?"

"No, the doctor made certain of that. She had sufficient morphine that the pain was barely present." Jones tucked one hand into the other, the better to hide the tell-tale twitching, but Loristan noticed.

"You are hiding something. Tell me. I shall not be angry. Not at you. You are but a messenger, and not the one responsible for her death."

"I just don't know quite how to tell it."

"The truth. Say the facts only, and I shall know."

"She did not suffer physically. But her mind… She was agitated, and terrified that you would find out. That you would come. Or perhaps that you wouldn't. But she was afraid that your enemies would also find out, and use her illness as a trap for you. So she was not calm until the very end."

"You were with her for that?"

"I was, sir. I held her hand as she died."

"And her last words?" Stefan Loristan looked deep into Jones' eyes, compelling the young man to tell the truth. Jones took a deep breath, and spoke.

" _The heart in my breast …_ _Tell Stefan I love him_."

Loristan sat still a moment, and Jones watched as the tears finally filled the widower's eyes and ran down his cheek. For a moment, Loristan let himself cry, then he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them away.

"Thank you. Now. Do you have a place to stay?"

"I do. I'm at the Hotel d'Arquebus until Friday, then I leave for London."

"Then perhaps you will come to dinner tomorrow night?"

Jones was about to decline when he saw the sorrow in Loristan's eyes. "I shall." He took his briefcase, picked up his hat and coat, and left. Lazarus showed him out, then returned to the room where Loristan sat silently. His employer looked up, and took into account Lazarus's trembling, his white face and the look of anguish in his eyes.

"May I be excused for the night, sir?"

"Go. And while you are praying, light a candle for me."

"Yes, sir." Lazarus left in search of consolation, while Stefan Loristan gave his wife the only memorial he could, reminiscing about their short life together.

 _Hanover, Germany 1890_

"You do me much honour." The Margrave bowed to the young man who stood beside his father. "My god-daughter has been raised in the knowledge that one day she and her family would return to Samavia, and she is honoured to be chosen as your consort. Your father has discussed the match with you?"

"He has." Ivor Stefan Loristan nodded to his father, Ivor Pavel Loristan, who had arranged this meeting. "But I would consider it a favour if I might meet her beforehand. It would be a kindness to the lady to become better acquainted before we marry."

"I have asked her to meet us here, and indeed, she has arrived. Marcela, my dear, may I introduce Pavel Loristan, and his son Stefan. Stefan, Pavel, this is the _Freiin_ Marcela Humojvić, daughter of Jovan Humojvić, a loyal Samavian to his dying day."

The young woman who approached them from a side path sank into a deep curtsey. Surprised, Stefan held out his hand and helped her back up, noticing the sun glinting off her dark brown hair. He was pleased to see she was fair to look at, with intelligent eyes and a pretty smile, but was quite thrown by the almost childlike bounce as she came to her feet.

"Your Highness, I am … this is such an honour. I know of you, of course, and your father, but I never thought I would meet you. And now, we are …" Marcela was blushing, and a stern glance from her father silenced her babbling.

"We are to be married." Stefan, schooled in the future he and his family must play for Samavia, still felt a thrill that the wife chosen for him was so beautiful. "But only if you wish it also. And I would know a little more of you. Shall we walk?"

Until then, he had not noticed the tall soldier who stood motionless nearby. It was only when his gestures indicated they would leave the others that the soldier moved to observe them. Marcela noticed Stefan's glance, and smiled.

"That is Lazarus. He was in my father's army, and for the last year has been my faithful protector."

At this, the soldier stood to attention and saluted. "Sir!"

Stefan nodded to the soldier. "You have a precious charge, Lazarus. I commend you for your service. Will you attend us on our walk?"

"I have been ordered to protect the _Freiin_ at all times. I shall attend you, if she so desires." He looked to Marcela, who smiled and nodded her assent.

Stefan tucked Marcela's hand into the bend of his elbow, and led her among the roses. The Margrave's gardens were legendary, and their sweet scent wove around the young couple as they walked along the gravel path. After a minute or two, Stefan felt her hand clasp his arm a little more firmly, a sign that she was slowly overcoming her awe. A moment later, and they were within a small alcove, a white marble seat in the shade offering a respite from the heat. He guided her to it, and the pair sat down, Lazarus taking a position far enough away that they could talk in private.

Nervously, Marcela folded her hands on her lap and kept her eyes low. He spoke first, quietly, so as not to frighten her.

"Is there anything you wish to know of me?"

"I do not know _what_ to ask, Sire." Her voice was low now, calmer than before, yet still nervous. "I trust you to treat me well and with honour, but after that I am ignorant of what you wish of me. Perhaps you could tell me of our life together."

Stefan's heart sank. Undoubtedly she imagined him as a shining knight, about to sweep her off her feet and take her to a castle. Or perhaps travelling from city to city in a fancy carriage, staying in palaces and expensive hotels while he sought support for regaining his country. "I must be honest with you, then. We will be living very simply, in rented rooms and lowly houses in the cities. At all times we must evade the notice of the authorities, because there are those who would fight our cause. And we will depend upon our patrons entirely for our support. There may …"

At this he halted, unsure of how to put it gently. Then he realised there was _no_ way to soften the blow. She would have to know.

"There may be times when we have only bread to eat and water to drink. Times when we sleep on meagre cots, with thin blankets."

He looked at her, expecting her to be shrinking away at this, but there was a light in her eyes he had not noticed before. She sat straight, her hands curled into tight fists.

"For Samavia? We would endure hardships, privation and poverty, but we would do it for Samavia?"

"This does not dissuade you from marriage?"

"It does not."

He considered for a moment. There was passion in her he had not expected. And then a doubt crossed his mind. "Are you doing this out of a sense of duty towards our country?"

"I do this for the love of Samavia. Are you not of the line of the Lost Prince?"

Stefan nodded, puzzled. "I am. You knew this when you agreed to our marriage."

"Then," she breathed, taking his hands in hers, "I love you."

"But you have only just met me. How can you love me already?"

"Because you _are_ Samavia. And as I have always vowed, _The heart in my breast—for Samavia!_ "

"God be thanked." Stefan lifted her hands to his lips, and kissed them. Then he gently leaned down and kissed her lips. "God be thanked," he repeated. "With such support, I …"

And his words were stopped by her return kiss, brief yet firm upon his lips.

 _Slavice, Serbia. 1899_

Marja Loristan placed the last item in her carpet bag, and closed the clasps carefully. Her travelling clothes were worn and patched, and her winter coat was threadbare. Even fully dressed, she shivered in the sparsely-furnished room, where the winter sun brought no warmth. Looking around at the bed, and the small pallet beside it, she gave a deep sigh, then lifted her bag and headed down the stairs to the Loristans' tiny sitting room. There, Stefan sat at a table covered with papers, while Lazarus played with Marco on the mat in front of the meagre coal fire. As she walked in, both men stood.

Stefan came over and took the bag from her hand, placing it beside the door. He then led her to the table, and sat her down in the chair closest to the fire, as she indicated Lazarus should continue with the boy. The soldier lifted Marco away to the other side of the room, knowing that his mistress wanted to speak to her husband privately, but he gave her a glance that showed he knew what was coming.

Stefan chafed her hands, trying to will some warmth into them, and he tried to hide his tears. She knew him too well by now though.

"My love…" Her voice was soft and low, and did not carry further than her husband. "I wish …"

"As do I. But you must get well. You cannot continue as we do. You are not strong." Stefan's voice was breaking, and he stopped and just held her hands as he knelt before her. "Your godfather's brother has promised that you may stay at his house in England as long as you wish. But …"

"I do not know how long that will be." Marja managed to hold back the tears, but only just. "When I married you, _Dosho Mino_ , I was Marcela, a child with a love of my country and a wish to serve her, and thus you. I loved you as part of my love of Samavia. But now, I am Marja. A woman. A mother. A wife. And I love you for your passion, and for your devotion. But most of all I love you for yourself. But for your safety, I must go. For my health, I must go. And while I must leave you for both our sakes, I will hold you in my heart until I see you again."

The pair embraced, holding each other for dear life. Barely audible, there was a knock at the door downstairs, and Lazarus left Marco to answer it. The three year old looked after his companion, but then saw his parents and went over and wrapped his arms around both of them, the three of them sharing their last moments as a family until no-one knew when. A discreet cough at the door warned them, and Stefan and Marja gently disengaged and stood as Lazarus brought in a priest wearing a heavy overcoat.

"My lady, your escort is here."

'Thank you, Lazarus. I shall be ready in a moment. Father, will you take a cup of tea before we leave?"

As the priest and the soldier prepared the tea, Marja drew Stefan into a corner, and gripped his hands tightly.

"Remember your promise, my love. Let Marco live as a child. I know you must take him from city to city, gathering your supporters, preparing all in readiness for the day when our country may be free. Prepare him. Teach him. But _never tell him_."

"I promise." Stefan kissed her forehead. I shall not tell him, not until he is a man. If anything should happen to me, you will tell him in due time. And if we cannot, I have left a letter with a friend, which will explain all. But now, _Dosha Mano_ , you must go. I will die a little while you are away, but I would die more were you to come to harm with us." He lifted her chin, and kissed her hard. " _The heart in my breast…"_

 _"For Samavia!_ " She smiled through the growing tears, then took Marco's hand and walked to Lazarus, who stood at attention beside the door.

"Lazarus? Faithful servant, loyal guardian? I have a boon to ask of thee."

The tall soldier looked down at his mistress, and at the young master standing beside her. Marco had already learned how to stand still, without fidgeting, and he looked up at his companion with wide dark eyes. Lazarus's breath hitched.

"Yes, Mistress?"

"I must go. I will be gone for a long time. Will you look after your Young Master, protect him as you have protected me, and keep both him and Stefan safe?"

Lazarus sprung to attention, and saluted, his eyes looking straight ahead at the wall opposite. They were also filled with unshed tears, but the loyal soldier did not falter.

"Always, Mistress. If that is your order."

"It is, Lazarus. And remember, you must obey the Master as you have me."

"Yes, Mistress."

Marja gently laid her hand on Lazarus's chest, and nodded, as the soldier's tears started running down his cheeks. She then bent down and took Marco's hands.

"My sweet boy. I must leave you, but I leave you in the safest of hands. Goodbye." She kissed him quickly on the cheek, hugged him, then stood.

The priest came up beside her, and took her bag. With one last look towards her husband, Marja walked out the door with her head high. She knew, in her heart, that she would never see them again. And in her head, she repeated the words she knew.

 _"The sword in my hand—for Samavia!_

 _"The heart in my breast—for Samavia!_

 _"The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life—for Samavia._

 _"Here grows a man for Samavia._

 _"God be thanked!"_


End file.
